


The Measure of a Man

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-20
Updated: 2011-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-27 14:49:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes has always been able to gauge the measure of a man. Until he hears Lestrade's confession. A regency AU written for the Mystrade Fest on Livejournal. Mostly smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Measure of a Man

The noisome fog hangs thick over the city of London, wrapping it in a filthy blanket. You allow yourself a moue of distaste as you alight from the cab before your brother's lodgings at 221B Baker Street. The urchin that delivered Sherlock's summons had declared that the matter had been of the utmost urgency, and you have learned that to ignore one of Sherlock's summonses these days is unwise, to say the least. Above you, a sickly light shines from the first floor windows and a woman is silhouetted there – Mrs Hudson. Good. This meeting will not, at least, come to blows with her present.

As you mount the stairs, however, you hear the shouts of your brother and the rougher tones of Dr Watson and another man. You pause for a moment, grasping the handrail, the reasons for Sherlock's urgent summons made clear: Lestrade is with them.

You resume your trek up the stairs, but by the time you enter the parlor (impeccably clean, thanks to the efforts of Mrs Hudson), you are out of breath and shaking.

 _But my tongue becomes numb. A thin flame penetrates my limbs._

Sherlock sees you first, standing in the door, holding your hat. You know that he can discern the state of your mind with a single glance, but it does not stop you from drawing yourself up: Mycroft Holmes, QC, MP. Holder of many honors, advisor to the monarchy itself. Gregory Lestrade is a jumped-up inspector. Lestrade of Bow Street. Son of a blacksmith, who was given more cleverness than he deserved. Lestrade, one of Sherlock's nursemaids (along with Dr Watson – about whom you hold deep suspicions regarding the nature of his relationship to your brother). That is, you remind yourself, the entire measure of the man. The man who once claimed, in your hearing, "Because I'm desperate, that's why," when asked by Dr Watson why he relied on Sherlock so much. You saw the look in his eye. And he noticed you watching him.

And he held your gaze.

It was that moment, right there. That moment that you knew that the measure of the man was far more than you had credited him. You are not in the habit of underestimating men and women – your very life depends on it. Yet you had underestimated Inspector Lestrade. And he knew it.

Blessedly, Sherlock chooses not to comment on your current state, but merely motions you into the parlor. You greet Dr Watson and then turn to Lestrade. Mrs Hudson makes her curtsey and leaves.

"Inspector," you say.

"Yes, yes, enough of that," Sherlock interrupts with a fine lack of propriety. He is in his shirtsleeves and breeches, damp, reeking of the Thames. Lestrade is, you notice, similarly undressed – his shirt loose and open at the neck, breeches wet and tight across his hips and buttocks. You turn away, sitting as Sherlock waves you to a chair with a mocking smile.

Good God, is _everyone_ in this room aware of your infatuation?

You frown and nod again to the Inspector, and he catches your gaze. Strong, steady. Firm.

Dangerous.

Yet you have never shied away from danger. Dangerous men, dangerous affairs. Here, Lestrade represents both in the same dark-eyed, silver haired bundle.

It's a deadly serious game of chess. He is unwed, a bachelor who lives modestly in Cheapside, a diligent worker, yet rough and unrefined. Not worthy of your attentions, should they even be appropriate. Which they are, of course, decidedly not.

 _Fortunate is the man sitting opposite you. Who hears and sees you, smiling sweetly._

Sherlock is already rattling on about their adventure in the Thames. Dr Watson looks amused and relieved and annoyed at the same time – their relationship is so fresh, so new. Lestrade smiles politely, interjecting where he can to clarify the details that Sherlock deems irrelevant, but mere mortals like himself seem to require, and you listen. It is your task, on these occasions, merely to listen. A few well-placed words later on amongst your colleagues, and the wheels of justice will turn perhaps a bit more quickly.

The case is relatively simple, despite Sherlock's claims and protests, and between you and the now mostly dry Lestrade, you are able to assure him that the perpetrator of the three horrific murders down the East End will be brought to considerable justice.

"Well, then," Lestrade says. "I will be taking my leave." He makes his bow to Sherlock, and you rise.

 _My ears ring with their own sound. My tongue clings to my throat, my eyes, darkened by a two-fold night…_

You nod to Lestrade and extend your hand to thank him, once again, for his diligence and the care he and Dr Watson take to ensure the health and safety of your brother.

His palm is warm against yours, fingers roughened by labor and the life of a policeman. Although he still reeks of stagnant river water, beneath it, you can smell his soap. You find yourself staring at the suprasternal notch, wondering how he would sigh if you were to place your tongue there, tasting his skin, breathing in _him_.

 _Leisure, to you, is odious. You delight too much in leisure._

There is a silence in the room, only broken by the loud pop of a log in the fireplace.

You jump, realizing only then that you are still grasping Lestrade's hand. You meet his eyes and notice, then: the widening of the pupils, the tightening of his mouth, the working of his jaw and the flicker of his tongue against his lips.

He knows. Of course he knows. How could he not? You are as transparent to him as a giggling schoolgirl. A flush rises.

 _Leisure has destroyed kings and prosperous cities._

You drop his hand, nod and head for the door, Sherlock's mocking chuckle ringing in your ears.

You practically throw yourself into your cab and are on the verge of telling the driver to drive on, when the door to 221B is thrown open. You turn, and Lestrade is silhouetted in the entrance.

"Wait," you say to the driver. "Mr Lestrade, do you require…"

His look speaks volumes. You have known this man only in the context of your brother, but now he stands before you, coat slung carelessly about his shoulders, breeches and shirt clinging to him, and you realize those things which, in the parlor of 221B, you were too cowardly to admit to yourself: he exercises a fascination for you – a desire to know the man, inside and out. The man who, before Dr Watson came into your brother's life, saved Sherlock countless times. Who allowed him into his world of crime and filth, not for the thrill, but for the sheer need of assistance in the hopeless battlefield of London. The man who achieved what you could not – the man who saved your brother from dying a syphilitic drunk in a seedy corner of the East End.

And you realize that just as you have been subjecting him to your scrutiny, he has been doing the same.

You push open the door to the cab.

"I can take you to Bow Street, if you desire," you offer as he climbs in beside you.

Inches separate you, and you can feel the heat radiating from his body.

"Or would you like to be taken to your lodgings?"

Lestrade does not reply, merely looking at his hands.

"Gregory," you say.

He looks up. His eyes are dark.

 _This man seems to be equal to a god. This man, if it is right to say it, seems to overcome the gods._

You tell the cabbie to drive on to your lodgings in Chelsea.

Not a word is shared between you in the cab.

Not a word is spoken as you alight together.

Not a word is spoken as you mount the stairs to your rooms.

Not a word is shared as he grasps your face in his rough hands and kisses you, his tongue sliding into your mouth, his hips canting against yours as you feel his erection pressing against your trousers.

Not a word is spoken until you are begging him brokenly to please, please, enter you. Break you.

And then there is a torrent of words, oaths, and moans as he enters you, filling you, leaning back between your legs as he thrusts, his neck thrown back, muscles straining.

You take yourself, pulling at your cock, until Gregory groans obscenely, his hand joining yours, and you spill yourself over your conjoined grasp, gasping his name as he stiffens over you; you can feel his release surging into you, and you are overcome.

You lie together on the floor of your parlor, breathing hard, hands clasped – sticky, sated, but perhaps not yet satisfied.

There will be, you know, a need for words. You are far apart from one another – joined only at the point of your brother as you orbit around him and Dr Watson, like planets around a distant star. What you have done together is of course illegal, immoral, dangerous. What pray you will not let yourself do that evening – confess the love, admiration, and respect you have for him – all the more so. But for now…

Now you lie together in silence, his arms wrapped around you, his breath hot on your neck as you grasp his hand to your chest.

Now there is silence.

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine, no money. Special thanks to Annie, Bluey, Machshefa, and PJ all of whom talked me off BOTH cliffs upon which I was poised, several times over. Italics are taken from my own translation of [Catullus 51](http://thelatinlibrary.com/catullus.shtml#51) and adapted.


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